Bridge
by MooseOnARoof
Summary: AU take on aftermath of 6X10. For this fic, Tucker died and the whole 'liver' business never happened. Wilson drives off to reflect. Bit of H/W hurt/comfort going on here.


_AU take on aftermath of 6X10. **IMPORTANT**: **For this fic, Tucker died and the whole 'Wilson getting his liver chopped up' business never happened cos well...time ran out. **(Plus Tucker never deserved that damn lobe of liver...because, quite frankly, he was an utter cock (excuse me)) **Wilson drives off to reflect. Bit of hurt/comfort going on here.**_

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He'd done it again. Another spectacular example to add to his burgeoning collection.

He wonders if he will get a plaque when he dies or maybe just a inscription on his headstone. 'James Wilson: Failure Extraordinaire.' At least then he would be remembered for something even if it wasn't exactly a positive thing.

What had made him drive south to Trenton, he didn't know, but here he was, clinging onto the railing of a road bridge, watching the water lap gently underneath.

It was late. The moon had been hogging the sun's place in the sky for at least a few hours by his reckoning and it was casting a pale glare onto the slickly black water.

He could hear is cellphone ringing in the car, which was parked up on the slim curb. But he didn't want to answer, he didn't really want to talk to anybody. He was fine standing where he was, breathing in the dull, heavy mixture of old car fumes, dirty water and rusting metal.

Even though he was New Jersey born and bred, the sharp, brisk nature of the night air always seemed to take him by surprise. He looked down at his hands, red raw and stiffening in their grip as the cold battered the bare flesh. It seemed the one time he needed his gloves, he didn't have them. But in a weird way the ache felt therapeutic as it stretched out through his fingers.

Keeping one hand on the rail, he swept his briefcase off the floor with the other before flipping open the clasp and pulling the contents out. He waved the thick wad of paper over the railing and ripped them in half with one aggressive motion. _No point in having paperwork for a dead person is there?  
_  
He watched the sickly yellow pages float effortlessly down into the river below before grabbing the briefcase by the scruffy handle and throwing that down as well. _No point in having an empty briefcase_. A gentle _plop_ reverberated in the air as the leather hit the water and he peered over to see gentle bubbles come to the surface as the case sank under the increasingly choppy waves. He leant his arms onto the railing and let his head drop into them.

.

.

His therapist had told him years ago it was unhealthy. She had tagged him as a classic case of a 'swan,' seemingly calm and able on the top of the water but with legs flapping frantically underneath to stay afloat. But in all honesty he wasn't a swan, he couldn't even swim.

All he was doing and had been doing was treading water. Thrashing and kicking to keep his head above the waterline with the waves of expectation and pressure lapping in from all directions, threatening to push his head under. Sometimes he would feel the greasy tentacles of self-loathing and failure grasping at his feet, occasionally twisting their way around his ankles, cutting the feeling to his feet so he couldn't kick away.

He's never drowned before but he's been close. He's been to the point where the only thing sustaining him was that last breath in his lungs, where one last tug from the darkness beneath would have sent him spiralling. But it never happened.

He had always managed to pull away, to find something on the surface to aim for, something that would get his legs and arms back in motion with purpose. And he would get there, he would gulp at the cooling air as his re-emerged. But then when he looked around he would find nothing but the same waves that were there before. Then the thrashing would start all over again.

.

.

He jostled his car keys in his hand, trying to determine whether or not he'd be needing them later. He couldn't decide so he dropped them back into his pocket until his mind was made up.

There was his cellphone again. The noise was beginning to infuriate him so he stalked back to his car grabbed the cell from the dashboard and threw it to the ground before stamping his left foot barbarically until the ringing had stopped. He surveyed the remnants of plastic and a microchip and kicked the shards into the middle of the road.

There was no traffic; there never was at this time of the morning so he felt safe enough to just sit on the hood of his car. He bunched his legs up and clasped his hands around his knees.

He guessed it was around twenty minutes before the flashing blue and red lights made their presence known on the other side of the road. He didn't figure they were for him. Why would they be? He hadn't been doing anything. Two cop cars stopped about 50 metres away and he counted five silhouettes getting out of the cars.

He stuck his head down, partly embarrassed and partly ashamed that he had stolen the attention of the police.

"Nice job on the ECG monitor. Not many people would have had the balls to stick their foot through it." House prodded Wilson's foot with the bottom of his cane. "Hey."

He sheepishly met House's gaze, his face flushing in discomfort.

"Cuddy's not happy though."

He mumbled some syllables that didn't quite equate to words.

"You okay? Stupid question I know but I like to make sure." House perched himself on the end of the hood, depressing the car further towards the road surface. "Some insane driver thought you were gonna jump."

"I wasn't going to jump."

"Right so you stopped on a road bridge in Trenton to admire the view?" House waved his cane at the cops, signalling them to stay back.

He knows House can smell bullshit but that didn't stop him trying to deflect. "Yeah." The high intonation gave away Wilson's lie.

"So you're definitely not okay if that's the case."

All he could give was a shrug, a shrug that he wasn't even sure House could see since it was so dark. Why was this so hard? Why couldn't he just say no? One basic syllable made up of two basic phonemes. It wasn't hard yet he found it so difficult to say.

God this was beyond pathetic. It was on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his throat. All he needed was a hard slap on the back or a solid punch to the gut and it would come flying out. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tight.

"Wilson." House placed a tentative hand on Wilson's shoulder.

He shook his head furiously, a little too furiously.

House began running his hand in gentle circles on Wilson's now trembling back. "I think we should probably get out of here before these asshats try and arrest you for something."

He hummed in agreement before letting his ass slip off the side of the car and opening the car door on the driver's side.

"Woah, woah. Like hell I'm letting you drive. Gimme your keys." House gestured with an open palm.

He didn't have the energy to argue. He was cold, miserable and in desperate need of some food so he limply tossed House the keys and headed around the passenger side.

He watched House approach the cops and babble something before the cops nodded and walked away leaving the two of them on the side of the road.

House clambered in with his usual lack of grace and started the car.

There was something bothering him. Nothing serious, just a simple curiosity. "House, wait."

House stopped himself just as he was about to put the car in drive. "What?"

"How did you know I was here?"

House smirked before pushing the gear stick forward and setting the car in motion.

"House."

"A few years ago you told me you spent three days in Trenton looking for Danny. You skipped med school for a week just to look for him."

He ran a hand through his hair. He understands now.

"You said you went everywhere, you checked every shelter, every alleyway. Then you got a taxi back to your hotel and you thought you saw him sleeping on the road bridge but you never stopped because it never occurred to you until you got back to the hotel."

Wilson sat mouth agape. He didn't even realise House had listened to him when he told him all this in a drunken stupor.

House carried on. "You went back the next day but he wasn't there. And that missed chance stays with you because you're a walking, talking sponge of guilt so you go back there to torture yourself." House flicked on the indicator. "And you think I don't listen you." House winked before turning the car left.

"Well you don't." He stated a matter-of-factly

"I do." House shrugged. "Sometimes. When it matters."


End file.
